


We Touch the Sea, Hoping

by subjunctive



Series: Author's Favorites [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Smut, Dorne, F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 11:39:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12232074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subjunctive/pseuds/subjunctive
Summary: While the heat is torturous, the company is pleasant. Or at least it ought to be. Perhaps it’s getting to him, crawling under his skin and making everything miserable—every word, every movement, every glance. Sansa’s eyes drop at a compliment the Martell boy pays her, and even this small thing irritates Jon to no end.





	We Touch the Sea, Hoping

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kakashihatake123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakashihatake123/gifts).



> Written for the @jonsaexchange on Tumblr, for @manbunjon. I intended to use the prompt "vacation" and write about a chill (though not chilly) Dornish vacation, but as what I wrote turned out to be not very relaxed and vacation-y, I think "first time" will have to do. :) As is probably obvious from the cast of characters, this is based on book canon, set sometime after spring has sprung again.
> 
> Many apologies for the lateness (I think you won't see this until Sunday! gasp) and a thank-you to the @jonsaexchange mods for allowing me the extension.
> 
> The title is from Pablo Neruda's "Ode to Hope."

The Dornish spring, Jon reflects, is warmer than many a Northern summer day. Here in the Water Gardens, the air sticks to the skin. He pulls at his collar.

Sansa looks more composed than he, though he spots a fine sheen of sweat at her temple.

While the heat is torturous, the company is pleasant. Or at least it ought to be. Perhaps it’s getting to him, crawling under his skin and making everything miserable—every word, every movement, every glance. Sansa’s eyes drop at a compliment the Martell boy pays her, and even this small thing irritates Jon to no end.

Or perhaps it’s only that he’s homesick for towering soldier pines and white-capped mountains. The red Dornish peaks in the distance are striking, to be sure, and the wet spring has made wildflowers bloom in the fields as far as the eye can see, but it’s not home. Not his home.

Though it might be Sansa’s home before long. It seems that every man from the realm has come to court her. Certainly every eligible bachelor from Dorne.

The worst of them is the one they call the Darkstar, a knight from some cadet branch of House Dayne. Handsome, silver-haired and purple-eyed, he looks more like a Targaryen than Jon himself—and, in Jon’s opinion, he is utterly untrustworthy. He has no idea what Sansa thinks of the man. She is as friendly to him as she is everyone. Sooner or later, he’ll have to raise the subject of Gerold Dayne with her.

The others are hardly better. Not for lack of character; Jon simply doesn’t like them. Trystane Martell is charming and gregarious, and Edric Dayne serious and honorable. Of all of Sansa’s suitors, it’s Ned he knows best, for he fought in the War alongside Jon with his milkglass sword. If he had to choose one of them for his lady cousin, it would be Ned. He’s a hero, a rare one deserving the title. Sansa herself, however, has shown no preference thus far.

“Lady Stark, I would love to show you the gardens. The green ones, I mean.”

A titter passes through their seated company. Men and women mingle in Dorne freely in social settings, and the speaker is one Allyria Dayne, Ned’s aunt and the sister of a woman once rumored to be Jon’s own mother. She wears the thinner silks the Dornish favor in the heat, exposing parts of a woman’s skin Jon had not seen since he visited a cave what feels like a lifetime ago.

He averts his eyes. Unfortunately, they avert to Sansa, who in a concession to her comfort wears more of the same. Sansa is fanning herself with the sun-hat meant to protect her skin from burning, and at the little wave of wind she creates, her lips form an ‘o’ of relief.

He can’t look at that, either.

The Darkstar suggests himself for company, and Jon marks how his eyes follow the curves of her backside.

“I’d like to come as well,” Jon says abruptly, and several pairs of eyes glance at him in surprise.

Dorne, he thinks, must be one of the seven hells.

* * *

“You could be more pleasant,” she suggests, in their quarters later that afternoon. During the hottest part of the day, the Dornish have a tradition of retiring, and sometimes sleeping a bit. She and Jon have separate chambers adjoined by a private door.

A grim line settles between his brows. “I’m perfectly pleasant.”

“No, you’re accustomed to barking orders at recalcitrant soldiers, and not at all to the pleasures of fine company,” she corrects. “I understand. But you could smile once in a while. Lady Dayne thinks you quite handsome, you know. You could encourage her.”

“Encourage her how?” He appears to be genuinely confused.

 _An exercise in patience,_ she tells herself, feeling near as grim as he. “Jon, we’re here to increase relations between our nations. Meaning marriage politics.”

“I know. Who do you favor?”

“Who do _you_ favor?” she counters.

“Me?”

“You, Jon.” Infinite patience, she tells herself.

His bewilderment would be amusing if it wasn’t so frustrating. _No, it is still amusing._ She pets his cheek and watches a mulish frown settle onto his face.

“You’re mocking me.” His hands, settled on his knees, twitch as if he meant to grip something.

“I am _not_ ,” she says, aghast. “Jon, surely you don’t think me capable of such . . .” Then her throat closes up. Arya. Of course he does.

For a moment she cannot speak, too overcome by anger—at Jon, at Arya, or at herself, perhaps all three at once. But she steadies her voice as she says, “You do understand you can make a good match now, don’t you?”

“I’m a bastard.”

“Robb legitimized you.”

“Still born a bastard,” he points out.

“And a legendary hero,” she says gently, touching his shoulder. “You weren’t born that.”

“Perhaps not. But . . .” Slowly he shakes his head.

“Bran only suggested a single engagement with Dorne. Why did you think you were here?”

“To accompany you, of course. Bran thought I should look after you.”

“Is what why you’ve been glowering at all my suitors?”

She only means to gently tease him, but a hot flush settles into his cheeks and his eyes glow like coals. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps.

Stung, Sansa crosses her arms. “I’m not being ridiculous. You’re the one being ridiculous.”

He huffs, then glances at the door. Sansa can tell when she’s not wanted, so she takes her leave.

In her room, she wishes desperately for sleep. Either calm oblivion or gripping nightmare would be better than the madness that has seized her, the one that makes her want to march back to his chambers and . . . _What?_ she asks herself almost cruelly. _What do I intend to do? Kiss him? Don’t be so stupid, like Joff and Cersei always said._

It was she who had initiated this business in the first place; she has no right to complain. She meant to make herself free of him, free of her awful thoughts of him. Then Bran had to send him _with_ her.

It would be easier, she thought, if only he didn’t look at her the way he did sometimes. If only he didn’t snap and growl at her suitors when they came near. If only he didn’t give her thread after thread of foolish hope to hang onto until they unraveled.

* * *

"They look very fine together." A soft voice interrupts his thoughts.

He returns his gaze to Lady Allyria, a heat rising to his cheeks that has nothing to do with the climate. "Yes, they do."

Nearby Sansa and Ned are taking a turn in the gardens, their heads bowed close together, his gold and her auburn. Sansa's face is pink, though it could be only the effect of the sun. Jon frowns. _Let her burn if she wishes to,_ he thinks, though the sulkiness of it is apparent even to himself. He sinks back further into the white willow-chair.

"A good match, I think. They both have sweet dispositions, and a desire to do good and be kind. We could ask for worse."

Jon thinks of the Darkstar. "No doubt," he admits.

Lady Allyria is watching him with a keen gaze, as though she knows something about him she isn't admitting.

He shifts. "I knew Lord Edric as a companion on the battlefield. He was half the age of many men there, yet acquitted himself better than most of them." Which is to say, Ned stayed, and kept fighting, day after day.

"My lord is too kind. And please, if I may say so, you are welcome to call him Ned. He thinks very highly of you. And who knows? Very soon you might be brothers, or cousins, as the case may be."

 _My lord._ It reminds him of Sansa's words the day before, that it might be _he_ who makes a match here rather than she. The thought is as absurd now as it was then, and he has no idea what to do with it.

"Cousins. Yes." Jon turns the hammered silver cup he's been drinking from around in his hand. The outside is lined with droplets of condensation. He wants to hold it up to his face, yet that would be showing weakness. He fingers the slight chill instead.

"I thought of suggesting another match"--there's a note of amusement in her voice that makes Jon look up sharply--"yet I think you have no interest in it."

"I'm a bastard," he says automatically, then amends, "I'm bastard-born." He leaves unsaid that the very suggestion of the match would be offensive.

"And I have five-and-twenty years, making me a spinster by many standards," Lady Allyria says dryly. "But my dear nephew still insists I may yet find love." Is that a trace of wistfulness in her voice?

Jon's burned hand clenches, then releases. "I've seen far stranger things than someone loving a kind, intelligent soul. You may yet, my lady."

"But not with you, I think."

"I would not insult you with the presumption." It's as delicate as Jon knows how to be. He's met ladies of great houses before, other than Lady Catelyn, but their interactions were fairly brief--often by Jon's own discomfited design.

Lady Allyria's violet gaze falls on Ned and Sansa, where they are conversing about flowers, of all things. Ned is telling her about the great orange blooms called _hibiscus_ , and follows his explanation by plucking one from a nearby bush and tucking it over Sansa's ear. In return Sansa begins telling him of columbines and asters and bluets, the small wild Northern blooms. She glances at Jon as she tells a tale of Arya plucking a handful of flowers for Lord Stark when they were children, casting him a small smile as she does, as if the story is for his benefit.

"No," says Lady Allyria thoughtfully, jarring him, "I think your interests lie elsewhere."

* * *

"Let's have a proper swordfight," suggests Ellaria Sand.

"It's not proper unless the blades are poisoned," murmurs one of the Sand Snakes, making some of the others giggle and one of them shout "I have some if you need it!"

"A bit of fine sport may help keep our minds off the heat," suggests Ned, looking to Jon.

Jon doesn't know about that, but he's been restless and on edge since his morning repast with Lady Allyria. There is appeal in the idea of working off that tension. Making it go away.

"It's Dornish tradition to practice at swords without any shirts," one of the Sand Snakes suggests with perfect seriousness, before she breaks out into a smirk. Elia, he thinks her name is.

"It will keep our minds off the heat," the one named Tyene agrees sweetly. "You'd be doing us a service."

They remain fully clothed, to the loudly voiced disapproval of several women. Jon spots Sansa looking shocked, but she covers her mouth to disguise her laughter as well.

"I must warn you," Jon says as he is handed a practice sword by one of the younger bastard girls, "I'm no great swordsman."

"I'm sure you're only being humble," Ned says diplomatically, ever polite. Jon snorts.

Ned's victory isn't terribly humiliating, at least, Jon reflects afterward as he lies on his back in the dirt under the scorching sun. _At least he was gracious enough to go easy on me._ Toward the end Jon was giving it everything he had, and he was fairly sure Ned had barely broken a sweat. But Ned offers him a gallant hand up, and Jon's pride isn't so smarted that he refuses to take it.

"Come on." Ned claps him on the back. "There are men's pools. We're disgusting. Let's try to be less disgusting. Coming?" He looks around to the other men.

Elia boos again, but Jon agrees, and doesn't look at Sansa.

* * *

"Men and women have separate pools for bathing bare," Ellaria explains, after the men have left.

"Bare?" Sansa inquires, staring after where Jon and Ned departed.

"Bare," says Elia, one of Lord Oberyn's bastards. "Nude. Without clothing. Do I need to explain further?"

"I quite understand," Sansa says coolly. "We have springs at Winterfell, though there were certain times of day reserved for women and others for men." Not that any woman bathes _bare_ , she adds silently, remembering her mother teaching her how to swim in her shift.

"There are women's pools as well," says Allyria, plucking at a length of silk sticking to her skin. "I must say I'm tempted."

Elia claps. "Yes, let's! Then we can . . ." One of her sisters elbows her in the side and her mouth snaps shut, though she's still smiling secretively.

A gaggle of talking women moves slowly, but they make their way to a series of graduated pools, each connected to the other by a small, low waterfall. It's so lovely Sansa forgets where she is for a moment, and there's only crystal clear water, white granite, and the bright colorless sky.

Two of the littler girls, perhaps eight or ten years old, rush past her and jump into one of the pools with a large splash that catches Sansa in the legs. They are both already unclothed; Sansa suspects they dropped their clothing on the way. The older women are slower to disrobe and lower themselves into the water. Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa spots Lady Allyria's reluctance and nervousness, and paradoxically it gives her enough courage to unlace her shift and pull it over her head.

"Thank you, Marta," she says to the servant who is handling their clothes, and then she takes Lady Allyria by the arm as they step in.

The water is cool and perfect, a balm against the hot sun. The girls play and the ladies lounge. It’s just deep enough to duck her head underneath, her scalp tingling with relief. It was wise to pin up her braids, she thought, or they would have dragged down her head, heavy and wet.

She is welcomed to the company of the women, who fortunately prefer talk to shoving each other under the water. Those who have been here before--lived here especially--seem comfortable in their nudity, so Sansa takes her cue from them and pretends she is as at ease. Still, it is strange to see women’s bodies displayed so frankly.

The chatter is pleasant and meaningless for a time: there is a brief discussion of a land dispute between three minor nobles, until someone hushes them for being too serious; then talk turns to love poetry, and then, as Sansa knew it would, to her mission here.

“Worry not,” Ellaria assures her, “your secrets are safe with us.” Tyene titters and agrees so sweetly Sansa knows better.

“I find I am having difficulty making a choice,” Sansa admits. “I’m afraid Dorne has an abundance of handsome, charming, chivalrous men.”

“Have you had any of them yet?” Elia asks curiously. Her mother pinches her shoulder, eliciting a protest. “Perhaps that would help her decide!”

“Had them?” Sansa asks hesitantly. She has a notion of what they mean--people did not close their lips and dance decorously around bawdy subjects around Alayne Stone--but it would not do to misinterpret. Better to let them think her silly or stupid.

Elia rolls her eyes languidly from where her head lolls on her mother’s shoulder. “Have you _lain_ with them.”

“She’s a northern lady,” says Ellaria disapprovingly, though the lack of conviction in her voice belies her affection for her daughter. “You know well they remain maids until wed.”

“It’s not only a Northern tradition,” Sansa says, to cover her embarrassment.

Ellaria smiles slightly. “Everything north of the Marches is ‘north’ to us.”

“Jon said something similar once, about the wildlings,” Sansa recalls. “They said everything south of the Wall was the South, and we were all the same southroners to them.”

At the mention of her cousin, Elia noticeably perks up. “I’ve heard things about him.”

 _Everyone has, he’s a famous hero,_ Sansa thinks, though she only smiles in response.

“I have an idea,” Elia declares, to a round of chuckles and shaking heads.

“What’s your idea?” Sansa inquires politely.

Elia’s dark eyes flash with mischief. “You haven’t been to the men’s pools yet, have you?”

“The men’s pools? No, I haven’t.” Sansa’s heart picks up pace. Didn’t they say they were for bathing nude, like the women?

“It’s a girlish pasttime to spy on boys and men,” Ellaria explains, making Elia pout. “And for boys to come spy on us. I’m surprised we haven’t seen any yet, frankly. They’re never very good at hiding.”

“Jon would never,” Sansa says, before realizing perhaps she shouldn’t have implied he was so much better than them.

Fortunately, Lady Allyria comes to her defense. “I doubt Ned would, either.”

“Ah, that’s it.” Looking wise, Ellaria wiggles a finger. “They’re being kept in line. I’ll wager that’s it. Ah, too bad.” A low, general chuckle rolls over the surface of the water.

“Well--are you coming, or not?” Elia’s impatient look suggests she wouldn’t care one way or the other. She steps steps out of the pool, gleaming and lithe and brown, and Sansa can see what a man might see in her. What _Jon_ might see in her, the man who loved a wildling woman and a dragonrider.

“I’ll accompany you,” Sansa decides.

They both slip on white silk robes, thin, insubstantial things that come only to their elbows and knees. Though it’s clear Elia would rather strut about in the nude if she could, she accedes to her mother’s request to remain clothed in public spaces. Sansa knots it about her waist in the best imitation of Elia she can manage. 

The walk to the men’s pools is not the leisurely stroll through the gardens she had taken. Elia is intent on her goal, and waits impatiently for Sansa to catch up at every turn through the gardens.

“One of my sisters clipped out part of the bush over here.” Elia says in a low voice, nodding toward a row of magnolias with a quickening pace. “There are bushes further back, too, so the men can never tell.”

“A spy-hole,” says Sansa, amused. Arya had told her once that the servants had spy-holes at Winterfell. “But won’t the gardeners notice?”

Elia smirks. “Not if they’re paid not to.” She gives a sigh when she ducks to look through the hole, which must be no larger than her hand. “Ah, it’s grown in a little. I used to be able to see the statue of the Warrior. But this will certainly do. Yes, it will.”

Sansa tries not to sound too eager. “What do you see?”

“Here, have a look for yourself.”

Faced with the prospect of actually looking, Sansa balks. “Oh, I’m sure I couldn’t . . .”

Elia gives her a knowing look. “If you say you didn’t intend to get a glimpse for yourself, I won’t believe you. Besides, one of these men may be your husband someday. Don’t you wish to know what you’re getting into?”

Feeling wicked, Sansa leans in. It takes her vision a moment to adjust, to realize what she’s seeing. They’re farther away than she expected, she realizes to a tinge of disappointment. But she can still make out distinct figures: there are quite a lot of black-haired heads, and she spots the striking silver-and-black mane of the Darkstar next. Then there’s Ned’s yellow curls, which are darker when wet and sticking to his head, and Jon’s plain Stark brown as well.

They’re all handsomely made--her suitors and Jon, anyway. Sansa has an artist’s eye, her mother said proudly once. Perhaps it’s that instinct that lets her eyes trail over the gentle curve of Jon’s spine where he sits with his back to her.

“If you’re going to hog it, I’ll just have to find somewhere else to look,” comes Elia’s sing-song voice from beside her.

Sansa draws back, fearing rudeness and embarrassment, but Elia has darted away. Sansa hears her sandals slap against the stones, the sound slowly fading . . . but not disappearing.

Suddenly she hears a shout go up. Several shouts--masculine shouts. When she looks through Elia’s spy-hole, she finds herself laughing at Elia’s mischief-making. One of the men splashes her with a great wave, causing her to shriek, and the little boys are heckling her to _go away, get out of here!_ Still, Elia is undeterred.

“You’ll have to catch me!” she cries, and several men take up the challenge.

Sansa can guess how the chase will end for the victor, and the thought makes a shiver of fear and excitement run through her. _If it was someone I wanted to catch me . . ._ She steals out onto the pathways with a half-formed hope she dared not voice, even to herself. The gardens are a maze of shrubbery and stone; she’s not even sure she remembers the way back.

Multiple sets of hurried footsteps draw closer, and she throws herself into a shadowed alcove, heart hammering.

A body throws itself into her space, colliding with her. She almost shrieks, before a hand covers her mouth. Sansa raises her eyes to his, half-afraid of who she might find, terrified her hopes have led her astray once more.

Even though the sun is behind him, shadowing his face, there’s no mistaking that long face. It’s Jon.

Sansa slumps against the warm stone in relief.

He holds up a finger to his lips, and she nods.

 _Sorry,_ he mouths, removing his hand and trying to shift away. But he can’t go too far, or else he’ll be found out, so they must stand as close together as the statue of lovers she saw the other day.

Together they listen as a lighter set of feet make themselves known. Sansa recognizes Elia’s boisterous, mocking laugh. The footsteps slow as she draws near to where they are hiding.

Her approach is interrupted by a male shout: “Found her!” and Elia breaks into a run with a playful cry. The footsteps recede.

It is Jon’s turn to be relieved. He runs a hand over his face; he’s been sweating. He’s close enough that she can feel the lightest puffs of air against her skin as he pants.

“Were you chasing her?” she whispers.

He straightens up with a frown, leaning back. “ _She_ was chasing _me_ ,” he mutters, sounding baffled.

Then his gaze drifts down. Sansa realizes that in the commotion, her robe has been knocked askew. Untethered, the edges of the silk gape, revealing her. His eyes linger at her breasts, then lower, at the apex of her legs. One of his hands comes up to rub across his mouth, but for a long moment he doesn’t move, as if stunned.

Sansa takes that moment to look at him. He’s not wearing anything, she realizes with a shock. And he’s still wet from the pools, water dripping in rivulets down his shoulders and chest. She follows the trail of one with her eyes as it makes its way past his navel. His manhood juts from a thatch of dark hair.

With two younger brothers, Sansa knows what one looks like--but she’s never seen one like this, longer and thicker than any she remembers. But she knows what it means. Her fingers itch to touch it, to see if it’s truly hard or if there’s some softness in his skin still. The head, dark with blood, peeks out from its sleeve, and she imagines pushing that skin back to reveal more. Someone told her once that a woman might even put her mouth to it, taste it.

 _Caught,_ she thinks with a strange glee, not even sure whether she means Jon or to herself. _Caught, caught, caught._

When he tears his gaze back up to her face, she smiles.

She intends to beckon him closer, but instead he runs.

* * *

If they were in Winterfell, he would know of some nook or cranny she did not, someplace he found exploring with Arya or Bran. It would be easy for him to hide from her, to hide from everyone. But they’re in Dorne, and there’s only one place he would go, _could_ go, to reliably be alone. And he _will_ wish to be alone; of that she is certain.

She slips into her chambers, making sure not to let the door creak. She had had to put on something more decent to walk about the keep . . . but she kept the white robe, assuring the servant she had returned it to the pile already, and she slips into it now and pulls her hair down so it flows over her shoulders.

With her hand on the door adjoining their rooms, she pauses. She doesn’t know if he’s locked this door, too, and she’s almost afraid to find out.

If she doesn’t do anything, Jon will try to forget about it, and she might lose her resolve and let him.

She doesn’t let herself think about the consequences. She pushes the door open.

He whirls around with wide eyes like a startled deer.

“What are you doing here?” He sounds almost petulant.

“Isn’t it clear?” Sansa’s question is not teasing or mocking, but earnest.

Jon’s mouth works silently before he shuts it. A determined, stern look slides over his face. “We shouldn’t do this,” he warns.

That stern look would be more effective at putting her off if she hadn’t seen him put it on a hundred times or more to do some grim task he misliked.

Instead of turning her away, all it makes her do, with a burst of triumph, is draw closer.

He steps back reflexively, once, twice, before the backs of his knees collide with the bed and he sits down, hard. His burned hand twitches. Sansa comes close enough to take it between hers, stroke it, and raise it to her cheek.

She knows she’s won when he moves to grip the back of her neck, squeezing. Perhaps next he pulls her down for a kiss, or she lowers herself for one, she does not know: all she knows is that his mouth is on hers, tasting her, first in shallow sips and then deeper swallows.

Her pulse has settled somewhere between her legs, beating like her heart in a steady thrum that only quickens when his other hand draws her closer by the hip. The movement loosens her robe and this time he’s quick to undo the tie and let it fall open. Satisfaction settles on her like a cat when she sees how he looks at her.

When he takes a nipple between his lips and sucks, Sansa gives a soft cry and tries to steady herself against him as her knees weaken perilously. He catches her with an arm under her rear.

“I can’t,” she whispers into his hair, “I need . . .”

He groans against her sternum. She means to have him lay her on the bed, but instead he urges her onto her knees straddling his lap. His fingers bunch in the hem of her robe, making the silk slide against her skin. She doesn’t even know what she wants him to do, exactly, she thinks, but whatever it is, she wants it with a surprising fierceness. She tips forward until her forehead rests against his, and for a moment they only breathe together.

Her hands stroke his where they rest against her thighs, and he slides them up her hips, pushing her robe out of the way. His knuckles brush the sides of her breasts, his hands unfolding to cup her and squeeze lightly. One hand drops to her hip again, digging into her rear and pulling her up so he can kiss and lick the tip into a sensitive peak.

“Jon,” she whispers, for the pleasure of seeing his eyes meet hers wide and dark before she kisses him again.

His knuckles brush over her belly, then the insides of her thighs, making her tremble. When he finally cups her womanhood, they both exhale--sharply, shakily. With a whimper, Sansa drops her head to his neck and closes her eyes.

His fingers slide back and forth, too urgent to be truly gentle, and she loves that. One of his fingers slides further back, questing, dipping into her. Just barely. But it’s enough to cause her to imagine his manhood there, parting her, and suddenly she seizes and cries out before going limp against his chest.

* * *

Jon turns to put her on the bed. He means to get his distance from her, to stop this madness somehow. Take himself in hand, put out the burning bonfire that’s sprung up inside him, and find a way to forget about all this.

But then she’s wiggling out of her robe, and then she’s laying completely nude on his bed, and then the flash of slippery pink skin between her legs arrests him. Sansa catches him with a hand at his shoulder, pulling him closer, and he goes.

Not where she intends, exactly. He nudges her thighs apart and spreads her with his fingers before covering her with his mouth. He tastes some Dornish perfume they put in their bathwater, and salt, and musk.

She’s still too sensitive from her climax, so he avoids her small nub, and instead tongues her slit until she’s sopping wet and canting her hips toward his face. _Oh,_ she says, again and again, half an exclamation of surprise and half a sigh of pleasure. _Oh, oh, oh._ She says it when he slides one finger into her depths and then two, when her knees tip further open. Feeling her walls tighten on him dizzies him. He adds a third. This time she whimpers, tossing her head, and clutches at him.

“Please, Jon, come up here. I want you to . . .”

He almost makes her say it, wanting to hear it from her lips, but he is distracted by the task of unlacing his breeches with slippery fingers. Finally the knot slips free, and so does he.

She perches herself on one elbow and takes him in her other hand. He hisses through his teeth at the unexpected contact and covers her hand with his own, tightening her grip. She draws her hand down his length and back up, agonizingly slow, and explores his cockhead with her thumb, probing at him gently, curiously.

When he can take no more, he pulls her hand away by the wrist and pushes it over her head, pinning her.

His cock brushes over her center and he looks at her with a final question, a final line presented for the crossing. She nods fervently, kisses him lightly on the lips, and settles back into the bed.

All it takes is a nudge and then he’s sinking into her. The sensation takes him by surprise. It’s been years since he’s lain with a woman, and he’s forgotten how it feels, to be gripped and held. Combined with her soft cry in his ear, it’s a wonder he doesn’t spill immediately.

Her fingers tighten on his, almost painfully. She draws in her breath and lets it out deliberately slowly, though it wobbles. 

“Are you well?” he whispers.

Her nod is immediate, and she draws her open palm down his spine to settle in his lower back, urging him on.

It’s sinfully easy to obey, to draw back and thrust again, to take her over and over and feel her slick depths welcoming him each time. Jon tries to go slow, but despite his best efforts, his pleasure builds quickly. When she wraps her legs around his waist and he looks between their bodies to see where they meet, to see his cock plunging in and out of her, his climax takes him forcefully, leaving his mind to blissful oblivion. For a little while, at least.

* * *

They make love twice more while the city is asleep during high heat. Each time is better, but tinged with more desperation, the kind that makes them determined to explore this, and each other, as much as they can, as though it might be the last time, though Sansa dares not let herself think the thought directly.

Jon catches her hand as she makes to rouse him for a fourth time, shaking his head wearily. She curls up against his chest and refuses to relinquish his hand.

“Sansa,” he whispers against her temple.

She ignores him until he tugs at her hair with his free hand, forcing her to look up.

“What are we going to do?” he asks.

She shakes her head stubbornly.

He sighs. “We’ll have to make a decision eventually. Bran didn’t send us here for nothing, only to return empty-handed.”

Jon loves his duty and his family more than anything. It stings to think he might choose them yet, over her. It seems unfair, now that she knows he does want her after all. Now that she’s touched him and kissed him and tasted him and taken him inside her. Oh, how it had hurt, but it didn’t matter at all as long as he wanted her. She welcomes the ache.

“Bran sent you along with me,” she whispers, remembering. “I was going to go alone, or perhaps with Arya. Do you think . . . did he know what would happen?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, though he sounds doubtful.

“I suppose a Dornishman wouldn’t care if I weren’t a maid,” she muses, hardly daring to look at him. “I could still marry one of them. Trystane, or perhaps Ned. Lord Dayne, I mean.”

His grip on her hand tightens warningly, his only response to her incitements. It makes her want to smile until her cheeks hurt, and it makes her feel so frustrated she wants to cry.

It gives her an idea.

Sansa sits up. The movement jostles him, making him look at her directly. His grey gaze, sometimes cold stone, is warm now, if cautious.

“I’ll do what you want,” she says. “I’ll do my duty and marry one of these lords for the sake of Bran’s crown and leave you in peace . . . if you tell me something I want to know. But you must speak truly. Swear it, Jon.”

Jon watches her warily. “I swear.”

“On Father’s bones.”

He shifts. “I told you. I swear I’ll speak true.”

Sansa caresses his cheek. “What do you want? Here.” She presses her palm against his chest, over the scar on his heart. “Not what you think you should want. Not what you want to want. But what you secretly want, in your heart.”

He looks betrayed. “Sansa.”

“You promised,” she reminds him, and thinks giddily, _And I lied._

A long time passes before, haltingly, he speaks.


End file.
